What's life inside a bottle if it's gone
by Ivy Springs
Summary: A blonde Frenchman sits at the local self-owned pub, in a desperate attempt to drown his worries in hard liquor and vodka. Anyone who knew the man well knew this was certainly out of character for him. One-shot 1P France x 2P!Fem!America friendship T for mention of alcohol Song fic


What's life inside a bottle if it's gone?

A blonde Frenchman sits at the local self-owned pub, in a desperate attempt to drown his worries in hard liquor and vodka. Anyone who knew the man well knew this was certainly out of character for him; he would do nothing like this, as he was a gourmet whose refined tongue would only allow him to drink the finest wine and not some cheap trash you could get for next to free.

Pour me, pour me, (pour me another)

This man's name was Francis Bonnefoy. He wasn't a local and had started coming in every night for a month now. He never talked to anyone, his crystal blue eyes never moving from his lap, only moving to signal the lone waitress for another round. He had noticed her on the few occasions that he had come here before, when his good friend Antonio or Arthur had one too many and needed a ride home. She was tan, mesmerizing garnet eyes, thick rust-coloured hair that fell to her shoulders in glossy waves. Sepia sunglasses always sat on top of her head and she wore the same white blouse and booty jeans. She was always chewing gum or smoking a cigarette, on occasions both. He always apologized to her for his friends' drinking habits and their attitudes once they have reached their limit, but she seemed to not care about the burden or she just didn't like him, she never said anything. Now it was usually him that was knocked out in the backseat, and he whom his friends apologized for.

Each night he sat in the same seat, the one in the farthest corner where the light flickers more than the others and the peanut bowl is always full. He ordered the same 7 rounds. 2 shots of 20 year old scotch. 3 martinis. 2 forties. In that order. Sam routine every night.

"Hey waitress, another round."

Another pour of the bottle. Another shake of the mixer. Another olive plucked from the jar.

Tonight was different. Same rounds. Same tone. But tonight, business was slow and he was the only one there. So she spoke to him. "Y'all gonn' be a regular visitah?" she asked, smacking her orange-flavoured gum. Her voice had a slight southern twang to it, one of the things he liked about her. "Perhaps mon petite…"

He smiled sadly into the coppery reflection of him in his scotch. "Once my money runs out, I can't even go home anymore."

Sad laughter. The kind you would hear when someone recalls a person they are fond of. And that person is dead and they know that no matter what happens, they won't come back even if they did the darkest of black magic or the deepest of sins, ones that not even the devil himself could bring himself to commit.

She gave him a bored look, smacking her gum again. "Why's that? Roommate? Wife? Girlio? Parents?"

"Money."

But at the bottom you can't swim, cause you drank up the sea

He smiled again. "Look at the economy. I just lost my job not 3 weeks ago, so now here I am. No job, can't pay off my mortgage."

He threw the shot back, setting the glass down gently, which she filled again. "Sorr' to hear that." she replied. Silence. A few moths fluttered around the flickering bulb, which gave that cracking noise each time it faded. "You have a friend getting you tonight?" she broke in, wiping down the bar for what seemed to be for the 40th time that night.

Pour me, pour me, pour me another

It haunts me, haunts me like no other

One more drink then I swear that I'm going home

"To be honest. I don't have anywhere to go. I'll probably sleep on a bench or something."

She sighed impatiently. "No friends that can keep you up for the night?"

He shook his head.

"Damn shame."

His rounds were over, so he picked up his dark coat, slinging it on and setting the fare on the bar. "I'll be back tomorrow night, mon cheri."

She looked at him unamused. He nodded to her then turned to leave. As soon as he opened the bar door, she spoke to him again. "Ya know, we have a room upstairs."

She looked to the side when he turned to her again. "I-if ya'll want, ya'll can stay here for the night. Free of charge."

His hard face softened, and his lips relaxed into a smile. His hands rubbed the rough stubble on his chin. "Only if it's not a problem for you."

"It's completely fine with me. I'm the only who lives here anyways."

She looked back at him, giving him the stink eye. "But don't ya'll try any funny business. I sleep with a bat under my pillow at night."

His only response was to laugh.

"Thank you, Abigail."

"Don't be so formal. Abby is fine."

Song: Pour me-Hollywood Undead


End file.
